The Desert
by michallev
Summary: Dean and John are on a hunt in Navada when Dean becomes sick. This is a pre-series fic, and it holds a challenge - you will have to read the story first.... . It's my firs Supernatural fic, so please be gentle with your reviews please review....
1. Chapter 1

Dean pushed himself slowly into a sitting position; squinting his eyes a little as the room tilted slightly. The damn headache his been nurturing for the past couple of days, ever since the last hunt just didn't seem to get any better, no matter how much rest he got or how much pain killers he's been forcing himself to take.

It was stupid, really. He told his father that he was thrown against a grave stone by the angry spirit of Jim McKoye, but the truth is he simply tripped. And if that's not embarrassing enough, it was after the hunt was over. He was walking back to the Impala, trying to decide which way will take him the fastest to Navada, where he is supposed to meet up with his father in a couple of days, when his foot jammed into a root or something and he fell over, hitting his head on a grave stone. He woke up a few minutes later with what will become a nasty black eye in a few hours and a persistent headache, which he hasn't been able shake.

Dean got up tiredly and went to the bathroom; shaking his head slightly as he got a good look at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like shit – the nasty bruise around his left eye was still the shade of purple, though it was beginning to fade to yellow around the edges, and truth be told he looked just as tired as he felt. He has to look more alive by the time he meets John, or he will never hear the end of it, or worse – his dad may not trust him enough to let him hunt solo again.

He stripped quickly out of his clothes and got into the shower, turning the heat up until the water was steaming hot. He just doesn't seem to get warm enough these last few days. Letting the hot water ease his sore muscles he thought that maybe he was coming down with something. He could already feel the slight joint pain he always got when he was running a fever. He'll simply have to stop in the nearest pharmacy to restock some aspirin to get his fever down or to stop it from rising – he has to be on top of his game for this next hunt.

It was one thing when he was hunting by himself and didn't have to worry about covering anybody's back. It was an all deferent story when he was hunting with someone else, especially his father. He has to be fit or someone else will pay the price; and worse – he'll let his father down. Deciding that getting sick is not an option, Dean turned the water off, and quickly dried himself, leaving only his hair all wet and dripping. It will also help with the fever.

He walked out of the bathroom completely naked (one of the few benefits of traveling alone), pulled a clean set of clothes and got dressed. It was already past 8 PM, which means he will have to drive all night if he wants to meet up with John first thing tomorrow morning as he had said he would.

He than quickly gathered all his things, stuffed them into his duffle bag and left, forgetting the half full bottle of aspirin on the night stand. It's definitely going to be a long night.

---

Dean finally pulled in front of the motel, which read "The Desert Motel" at 7:52 AM, 8 whole minutes ahead of schedule. His whole body ached from the long drive, so he slowly got out of the car and stretched painfully, absently rubbing his sore neck. Looking up at the sun he couldn't hold back the groan as he felt as though the hot summer Navada sun bore holes into his eyes. It was almost painful. The sun was so hot and it wasn't even 8 AM. He fucking hates the desert.

He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, swiping the sweat away. The affect of the aspirin he had taken a few hours ago was slowly wearing of, and he wasn't really sure, but his fever might have picked up a notch. He made a mental note for himself to get a new thermometer, something he really hasn't gotten around to do since it broke a few months back.

He peaked into the car again, taking the aspirin bottle, he bought at an all night pharmacy, from the gloves compartment and dry swallowed two tablets. Stretching up again and turning around he almost jumped as he came face to face with his father.

"Are you sick?"

"Jesus dad, you almost gave me a heart attack". Answered Dean, mentally kicking himself for taking the pills in front of the hotel, where his dad could see him, instead of waiting until he had the privacy of the motel's bathroom.

"Seriously Dean, are you sick?"

"Just a little under the weather." He replied quietly. There was no point in lying.

John squinted his eyes at him, examining his son.

"Because, you know I need you a hundred percent for this one."

"I know" Dean answered as he grabbed his duffle from behind. "I'm fit for this hunt, don't worry". He answered a little too harshly.

"OK." John gave up. He would simply have to keep an eye on his son for the next few days. The kid really did have a particularly high tolerance for pain and a tendency to lie about it. "Let's go inside so I can fill you in. It's too hot outside. Fucking desert".

"It looks bad." John said once they were inside, slightly indicating with his head towards Dean's injured left eye.

"It's not so bad…. Really dad, I'm fine." Dean said, deciding to postpone his much needed shower. There is no point in alarming his dad even further. Taking a shower to relax his sore neck and to warm up could wait. Though it is weird that he hasn't been able to warm up, considering that it is summer time and he is in the desert.

"So, what are we up against?"

"I'm not really sure." John answered. "There have been several deaths in the area these last few months. All the victims had disappeared after hiking in the desert, not too far from this town, but their bodies were discovered less than a week after they had been first reported missing."

"So, you think we might be dealing with a wendigo?" Dean asked as he set down and started cleaning his Glock. Anything to keep his mind off the persistent headache and the cold feeling that crept up his body.

"Wendigos usually live in the woods. It's not like them to live in the desert. Food is harder to come by in this area."

They set in silence for a few seconds, considering the next course of action. Dean cleaned his gun again taking it apart and putting it back together, not really paying attention. John went over his journal once more – trying not to stare at Dean, the kid really didn't look so hot; but he also knew that if he mentioned anything to Dean again it will just piss his son again – and a pissed off Dean could literally put himself to an early grave just to spite him. It was his way of rebellion – Sam would yell and slam doors and storm off, Dean would internalize whatever he was feeling and would become quiet, silent. And if he were sick he would just stop taking care of himself (not the he normally did such a good job at it – he usually channel all his energy to take care of his father or brother). He could really act like a for year old who tries to get back at his parents by stop breathing – it would be funny, if the kid weren't really sick.

"Let's just go into town, talk to the people. Maybe we're dealing with something different. Is there anything suspicious about this town?" Dean finally broke the silence, interrupting John's thought.

"Not really. I have been doing some research but nothing seems out of the ordinary. You know… apart from the 6 dead bodies… so I was thinking…."

Please don't say hiking in the desert, anything but hiking in the desert… anything but hiking… anything but hiking… Dean kept reciting over and over in his head.

"We will head out into the desert. Maybe draw this thing to us. Do some close hand research? And once we know what we're up against, we'll go back prepared. What do you think?" John asked. Not that Dean's opinion really mattered – it's not that he does not respect the kid. Because he does. But he's got more experience and the bottom line is that he's got the last say. They will always end up doing whatever he decides – but he just wanted to make sure that Dean was paying attention. He really does look awful. And it's not just the bruises. He just looks plain sick.

"Sounds good." Dean answered as expected.

"We should get out now before it gets too hot." John said as he started packing his weapons.

"I'm all set." Said Dean as he pulled a thin long sleeves shirt. He was really freezing.

"You're kidding right?" Asked John as he saw Dean wearing the shirt. "It's like 90 degrees out. Are you sure you okay?"

"I just don't want to get sun burns, alright?" He answered angrily. "I told you I'm fine. So just stop asking" He snapped and walked out of their motel room, picking the Imapla's keys on his way out. There is no way he was letting his dad drive his baby right now.

---

They had no problem locating the route the second and third victims had taken when they had gone missing.

"Are we going to walk the entire track?" Dean asked after an hour walk in the hot desert sun, silently praying that the answer would be no.

"No. We will have to go back to town and come back when we are properly prepared. We have got to play this one smart, Dean. First of all, we are not really sure what we are up against. And second, the fifth victim was a hunter…." That one really got Dean's attention. He turned around to face his father. "He came out here after the forth body had been found." John went on. "He was the one who called me, actually. He was a good man and even a better hunter. If this thing got him…." He suddenly stopped mid sentence as he watched Dean looking up in the sun's direction and visibly cringe. Squinting his eye's shot. "Dean, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just looked directly at the sun." He knew it sounded lame but there was no way he was going to admit to his father that looking at the sun was so painful that it felt like been punched in the face. "This thing didn't even have to work too hard. Look…" He said and looked back up, pointing in the general direction of the mountains, willing himself not to let it show how painful this slight motion was. "It probably just stayed on the slopes and followed them as they made their way in the canyon. It's almost too easy. It's a perfect place for an ambush."

"You're right. It means that this thing is smart. It knows this area well and it knows what it's doing."

"Maybe it is a wendigo." Dean speculated. "Nothing else seems to make sense." He stopped for a second, leaning against a rock in the only place that was in the shade, taking slow long sips of water. It was even hotter now that they were approaching 10 AM, but he still felt cold, too cold.

"I don't know Dean. That what I first thought, it was what Dale thought too. But the there are little things that just don't seem to add up – like that it hunts his victims in the desert and that it works during day time too and…" He stopped abruptly when he realized that Dean wasn't really paying attention. "Hey. Hey!" He nearly shouted until he got his son to turn his head and look at him. "This is important, you hear?!"

"Yeah, Dad. I know. It hunts in the desert and during day time and it doesn't hold on to it's victims for very long – unlike wendigoes." He finished, making sure his dad knew he was up for this.

"Let's just go back to the motel. Get some rest. Do some research." John said, he would never admit out loud that he had been wrong. Offering Dean some down time to relax was the closest thing to an apology he could offer.

"I thought you would never ask." Dean said as he pushed himself off the rock. "Wooaa" Dean said as the world was spinning around him and he had to grab the rock to steady himself. "I just got up to fast and spent too much time in the sun." He said before John gets the chance to comment about it, as he walked past his father.

John grabbed his son's upper arm as he passed him by and violently turned him around. "No bulshitting Dean." He said in a low voice. "I need the truth – are you feeling alright?"

Dean contemplating whether he should lie to his father. But that usually didn't end well when it came to his father. So he decided to level with him. "I'm fine. Really – I have a slight fever, and that nasty bump to the head I took a couple of days ago is sure not helping – but I have hunted with worse. Look, I was up all night driving and we just spent two hours walking in the sun in the middle of the summer. I just need to get back to the motel, take a shower and rest for a little bit, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." John said, not really sure. Something still doesn't feel right.

---

Dean woke up some time after 3 PM and the first thing he noticed was that his father was gone. The room was quiet. The drapes were pulled together, which dimmed the light. And Dean noticed that his father had left his lunch for him on the table.

He then allowed himself to moan out loud. The sleep didn't help one bit. If anything he felt even worse. His head was throbbing so badly he actually thought it would burst open and he was so cold he couldn't stop his teeth from chattering. His neck also felt so stiff that he could barely turn his head. Deciding that this was definitely time for some aspirin he pushed himself to a sitting position with too much effort.

The nausea he did not expect. It hit him so surprisingly that he barely made it to the bathroom in time. He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet and retched violently. Not that he had anything in his stomach to expel but bitter bile. But once he had started he could not stop. He heaved over and over again. His stomach clenching painfully with each heave. His headache intensifying ten times fold.

"Dean?" He heard his father's worried voice.

"In here." He answered quietly. No point in lying – he had left the bathroom door open – his father could probably hear him throwing up all the way to the parking lot.

"Here" John drew circles slowly on Dean's back. He could feel his son's muscles straining with each painful retch. He could also feel the tremors and the heat radiating from his son's body.

Finally after almost 10 minutes the heaving finally stopped. Dean pushed himself off the floor, flushed the toilet and rinsed his mouth to get rid of the bitter taste of bile. Gratefully accepting the glass of water his father offered.

He went back straight to bed and curled under the covers, squinting his eyes against the bright light that flooded the room once his father drew the curtains open.

"Dean?" He could feel his father shaking him slightly. "Dean, I want to take your temperature" John shook him again.

"It's not s'bad" He answered slurring his words a little, rolling on his right side away from his father, trying to go back to sleep.

"Come on, Dean. You're practically burning up." He said as he rolled his son back on his back forcefully. Dean just stretched his arm and waited for John to hand him the thermometer, which he grabbed and shoved in his mouth without even opening his eyes.

"Could you close the curtains" He asked around the thermometer.

"The light hurts your eyes?" John asked worriedly – it's not a good sign.

"It just disturbs my sleep, s'all." He answered tiredly, picking the worry in his father's voice – he really doesn't want to cause anymore trouble.

"103.8" Dean announced once the thermometer beeped. "Looks like you're on your own on this hunt, dad" He said dejectedly and rolled back on his side as he pulled the covers over his head.

"Fucking desert." Dean mumbled as he fought to keep his eyes from drooping

"Just go back to sleep, Dean" John said and patted him slightly on the back. "I'm heading out to talk the rangers who patrol the area."

"Call me if you need anything" He added as he walked out, but by then Dean was already sleeping restlessly.

---

**A/N** – okay, so here is the deal, I don't know how to continue this fic (I had it planned in my head only this far) so I'm offering this challenge (I don't know if this is the right way to put up a challenge, but I don't know any other way….) –

You can continue this fic, which ever way you see fit. You can throw Sam in if you want to, you can even copy it and modify it according to your desire. I'm not a big slash/wincest fan, but you can also do that (just don't forget to alter the rating if you do).

I named this fic "The Desert", so if you accept this challenge please refer to this title, though you may change the title to your fic if you want to….

HHkkajkgand


	2. Chapter 2

Dean turned slowly in his bed towards the noise coming from the door of the motel room. He pulled the covers over him, shivering even in the hot summer desert weather, his teeth chattering, trying to figure out what interrupted his sleep. Even this slight movement hurt his stiff neck in a sharp pain that seemed to go all the way to his brain.

He almost went back to sleep after a few seconds, when he heard the noise again. Someone was trying to unlock the door. It was only then that he realized that his dad was not in the room and that it was almost morning out side – the soft sunrise light coming from outside was hurting his eyes. Was his dad gone the whole time? He tried to remember if John had come back to the motel room last night, but he really wasn't sure.

He pushed himself off the bed with tremendous effort wrapping the covers around him. He was freezing even though he was wearing a long sleeved shirt and a sweatshirt and it was summer and he was in the frigging desert. He wobbled slowly towards the door, using the wall for support, squinting his eyes in pain from the light and pulling the drapes closed as he passed by. As he passed his duffle he decided to take out his gun, which turned out to be a much more complicated task than he had originally thought. Bending over sent waves of sharp pain to his back and neck and looking down made him so nauseous he almost gagged. But he got the gun and painfully stretched up reaching for the door knob he finally opened the door.

"Dad?"

Dean managed to catch his father before he hit the ground, unable to support his own weight. He put his father's arm around his shoulder and the both of them stumbled back to the bed. As he lowered his father onto the bed he did a quick inventory of his injuries, well the ones he could see anyway. His father was favoring his right side, his left arm wrapped around his ribs, and he avoided leaning on his left side as much as possible. That meant that he probably had some cracked ribs, if not broken. He could visibly see the gash on his father's forehead, but it was not bleeding at this point. His shirt stuck to his back, but was it from sweat or blood – he couldn't tell. He'll have to make his father take off his clothes for a better look. John's eyes were half closed and he didn't speak to Dean at all, and he hardly changed position from when Dean had put him on the bed, which probably meant that he had lost some blood and was showing early signs of shock.

Dean laid his hand on his father's shoulder and pinched the bridge of his nose with his left thumb and index finger. He could barely stand up himself – the headache from the last few days had reached a new level and he could tell his fever has picked up a notch or two since last night and was still climbing. All he wanted to do was to crawl back to bed and go back to sleep; let his father take care of him for a change.

"Dean?" His father's voice interrupted his thought. He didn't sound hurt, just tired.

"Yeah. Let's get you out of these clothes so I could patch you up". He said and started to pull his father's shirt off, but John waived him off.

"Get the first aid kit from the car." He instructed, and Dean appreciated his efforts to somehow protect him from all of this, to not show him how badly he really felt.

Dean nodded and went out side, shivering in the slight desert breeze that brushed past him as he opened the door. Once he was outside he felt even worse. It was almost fully light out side now and the sun hurt his eyes so much, he could barely keep them open. He also felt so nauseous and the world was spinning slightly around him. He stumbled towards the Impala telling himself that he could not fall apart now or afford to be sick. Not when his father is back in the motel room injured or worse and was counting on him. He took a few more unstable steps until he reached his beloved car and leaned heavily on the trunk. Another waive of nausea suddenly hit him and he doubled over and retched violently on the floor, but only bile came out, considering he hadn't had anything to eat in almost two days. Once he was finished he painfully stretched up and retrieved the first aid kit from the car, grateful that his father was too injured to witness his display of weakness. He then made the painful journey back to the motel room, ignoring the way the world kept spinning and tilting on it axis as he walked.

When Dean got back to the motel room John was sitting on the bed in the same position he was when Dean had left him, except he wasn't wearing his shirt anymore. He also looked quite pale and his breathing was a little fast, as if getting his shirt off was as hard as running a few miles. Dean also noticed that his eyes were glassy and he wondered whether his injuries were more than superficial.

Dean examined the long gashes and the bruises on his father's back. A few of the gashes were still oozing blood and would require stitches. The bruises covering his father's chest confirmed his initial worry that he had several broken ribs – the bruises were a deep purple color.

"Dad, I need you to lie on your stomach" Dean said as he helped John lower himself on the bed as gently as possible. He knew that lying flat on your stomach with broken ribs will cause his father a great deal of agony but he couldn't risk any further damage if he were to press on the fractures a little too forcefully – he didn't want to cause a punctured lung.

"Wait. Here. Take these." He handed his father 2 oval shaped white pills and the bottle of Jack from the nightstand.

"It'll help with the pain".

John took the pills from his son's hand, not noticing the heat radiating from him, and downed them with a long gulp of the whisky his was handed. He took several more long sips before he put the bottle back on the nightstand and painfully poisoned himself lying on his stomach on the bed.

"Just make it quick" He finally spoke before he allowed himself to relax and to be taken care of by his son, wishing he could just pass out already.

Once his father was lying on the bed Dean stumbled to the bathroom and filled a bucket with lukewarm water. He then threw a couple of towels in and returned back to the main room, ignoring the heaviness of the bucket, willing himself not to drop it. He felt so weak, and he was shaking so bad he really didn't think he would be able to suture his father's wounds. But then again, they had no other option. It's not like he could just drive his father to the nearest hospital. So he took several deep breaths, swallowed hard against the nausea and forced his body to be as stable as possible. He was thankful that his father's head was turned away from him, so he could just pretend for the time being that everything was alright. And anyways, it was all about his father now. John needed him. He can put off his own illness for a couple of hours, until John was back on his feet.

Dean took one of the towels from the bucket, squeezed it and began to wipe all the dirt and the dried blood from the wounds on his father's back. He tried to be as gentle as possible, and if he was hurting John, his father didn't utter a sound. After only a few seconds the towel was already the shade of pale pink, and Dean could clearly see that only two of the gashes would actually require stitches. The other gashes could just be bandages. He decided to start with the gashes that were still bleeding; the rest can wait a little longer. He took the needle from the first aid kit, dipped it in alcohol and than sterilized it by burning it with his lighter. He was then ready to begin.

"Ready Dad?"

John did not reply. Nor did he acknowledge Dean at all when he worked, though it must have been as painful as hell. Dean worked in silence for almost an hour, only stopping to take a few deep breaths to stabilize his trembling hands. Bending over to be able to suture his father's wounds while he was lying on the bed caused his back and neck to protest in sharp waives of pain and he had to stop every few minutes to stretch up. Each movement seemed to be more and more painful. He also felt nauseas again at the sight and smell of blood, his father's blood, even though he threw up before by the car and he had to swallow hard to stop himself from throwing up all over the bed.

After about an hour he stopped again, one hand resting on his father's broad back. His hands trembling so bad he didn't think he would be able to continue. He swallowed a couple of times against the nausea but even that didn't seem to help.

"Dean?" John finally asked. Now that Dean had stopped suturing his wounds he was able to think past the pain. He could also feel the way his son's hand was shaking, now that his hand was resting on his back. But worse than that – he could feel the heat radiating off his son's body. He instantly felt that Dean's fever was a very high one, definitely higher than it was yesterday afternoon when he last took it. And if yesterday Dean's fever was almost 104, he didn't want to think how high it was right now.

"Dean?" He asked again, when Dean didn't answer him the first time.

John began to stir as he tried to push himself off from the bed to take a better look at his son. The sudden movement jerked Dean's body, but it was that slightest movement that finally broke Dean's attempts to push his sickness aside. The dizzy spell that hit Dean was so intense and so sudden that he had to drop the needle and silk thread he held in his hand to grab onto the head board of the bed to prevent himself from falling.

The waive of nausea that followed was no better. Dean didn't even try to make it to the bathroom. He just doubled over and threw up violently into the bucket now filled of lukewarm water mixed with his father's blood.

"Christ, Dean". John mumbled but went back to his lying position, unable to watch his son bring up nothing but bile.

"Sorry, Dad." Dean managed to say between the heaving.

The heaving subsided after several minutes and Dean got shakily up to wash the bucket in the bathroom. He filled the bucket with water again and went back to his father. Noticing that the shaking wasn't as bad as it was only a few minutes before, he resumed his stitching.

Dean finished stitching his dad's wounds after another 15 minutes. He than spread antibiotic cream on all the gashes and bandaged them. He then shook John gently not sure if his old man had finally fallen a sleep or passed out.

"Dad? Dad, I need you to sit up so I could wrap your ribs." John didn't move.

"Dad?" He asked again and this time shook him harder.

"Yeah. Okay."

John pushed himself painfully to a sitting position and allowed Dean to wrap his ribs. He was then able for the first time since he stumbled back to the motel to scrutinize his son. Dean was pale, his freckles standing out against his pale skin. He also had a slight flush from the fever over his cheeks and his eyes were fever bright and glassy. John also noticed that he wasn't sweating, which meant that not only had the fever not broken yet, but judging from the tremors and shivering that wrecked Dean's body every few seconds, it will probably go up more.

"What?" Dean asked when he felt his father was staring at him.

"You look like hell."

"Yeah. You don't look better yourself." John couldn't argue with that.

"Did you take something for the fever?" He asked quietly, the worry quite evident in his voice.

"Yeah, Dad. I'm fine…" Dean answered but his voice was shaky and hardly convincing.

"Here, take another one of these for the pain. " He handed John another one of the white pills. This time John swallowed it dry.

Once his ribs were set and he could feel the affect of the pills and the whisky, which made his whole body feel a little numb, John repositioned himself on the bed in a semi-sitting position. It was the least uncomfortable position as his ribs would allow him. His eyes felt heavy from the painkillers and the lack of sleep and he closed them, convincing himself that just for a few hours he could put his needs ahead of Dean's. Just before sleep overtook him he mumbled: "But it your fever doesn't break by tomorrow I'm dragging your sorry ass to the doctor".

---

After his dad had fallen into a drug induced sleep, Dean cleaned the motel room a little bit. He picked up the bloody towels from the floor and went to bathroom to wash them. It was either that or to burn them, but even the thought of going outside let alone start a fire made him nauseous again. Truth was, he just hurt all over. Even the small task of tiding the place up seem to suck all of his energy and he felt really dizzy no matter how hard he tried to focus. It was like being drunk, without all the fun stuff that came with the buzz.

Once he was finished he hung the towels over the shower's bars to dry and staggered back to the main room. When he had finally reached his bed he nearly collapsed on it, missing it just a little bit and nearly fell to the floor. Cursing silently, trying his best not to disturb his father, he pulled himself onto the bed and finally laid back down, stifling a groan. Even lying down the room didn't stop spinning and his headache, which he was successfully able to avoid for the last hour, made itself known again. He gagged a little and nearly threw up, but quickly got it under control. Now that everything had been taken care of he could finally go back to his much needed sleep. Dean pulled the covers over his shivering body, tightening the sweatshirt around himself and closed his eyes, finally allowing to let sleep to over take him.

Dean woke up a little while later, feeling that something was wrong. His head hurt so much he was sure it would explode and what little light that penetrated the drapes hurt his eyes so badly that he could barely open them. He was also unable to move his neck and back at all without crying out in pain. He was also so dizzy he nearly fell over, even though he was now sitting in his bed trying to kick the motel's cheap blankets off. The cold sensation he had felt for the past few days seem to have been replaced with the feeling of being set on fire. He was too hot, though he was still shivering violently.

He tried to pick up the glass of water that laid on the nightstand as he tried to get himself to calm down, but he must have misjudged the distance from his body to the glass, because he ended up knocking the glass over to the floor. Luckily it did not break. Dean blinked hard a few times trying to get his eyes to focus but everything just seemed bleary.

His first instinct was to call out to his dad to load off some of the burden, to allow himself to be taken care of. But looking over to where his father was peacefully resting, he couldn't bring himself to wake him up. John Winchester needed the rest as much as his son did. So Dean just pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, swallowing hard as his stomach protested the movement and slowly made his way to the bathroom, leaning heavily on the wall for support; he didn't even bother to close the door behind him.

He turned the faucet on and splashed some water on his face, but it didn't help, if anything it just made it worse. The feeling of the lukewarm water against his hot skin made him feel cold again and he shivered uncontrollably. And once he closed his eyes against the water it was extremely difficult to open them again. Dean tried to hold onto something so he wouldn't trip and hit his head again, but his hands didn't seem to cooperate and grasped nothing but air. He felt that he was falling but he was too weak and too disoriented to do anything about it, so he just gave up and sank ungracefully to the floor. The sudden movement from falling made the dizzy ten times worse and his stomach clenched painfully. He tried to swallow to avoid vomiting but he could already taste the bile. Unable to control himself any longer Dean heaved violently. He tried to roll onto his right side but felt a sharp stabbing pain that started in his neck and exploded in his brain, making the nausea even worse, if it was even possible, so he just leaned back against the wall. Once the heaving started he was unable to stop, and since he couldn't find the strength to move Dean ended up throwing up all over himself, which made him gag again.

He tried to call his father now, trying to will his voice to work but no sound came out, only a few tears from the pain slid from his closed pained eyes down his cheeks. He heaved a few more times before his body gave up, he lost consciousness as his body slid on his right side luckily preventing him from choking on his own vomit.

---

**A/N – **so that was the end of chapter 2. since no one responded to my challenge to continue this fic, I started to get creative and decided to continue it myself. For those of you that are still up for the challenge, you are still more than welcome to do so – you can continue from chapter 1 or 2 – whatever suits you.

Next chapter will be from John perspective, and we'll find out what happened to him during the time he was separated from Dean (and I say "we" because I don't know yet what happened, I haven't thought this story up yet….)


	3. Chapter 3

John really didn't want to leave his son alone in the motel room. Not when Dean was sick. There was no point in denying it – a temperature as high as almost a 104 couldn't mean anything good. But he really wanted to finally have some sort of a break through in this hunt. He couldn't really concentrate on anything but the hunt right now. It was always like that, ever since he learnt the truth of what was really out there. He wanted to be there for his son, he really did. But if he wants to really be there, to really support him and take care of him, he needs to get the hunt out of the way first.

He knew it was messed up that way. His kids have to come first no matter what. And they do. They do come first, he told himself as he walked out of the motel room, careful to close the drapes as he left. They do come first – but in order to take care of his boy, he needs to get over the hunt.

Dean got it. Always have. He never had that disappointed look in his eyes when he left for a couple of days, or weeks or months at a time. Not like Sammy. Sammy would have that sad look in his eyes. Even when he was older and masked his sadness with pure anger – even when he was screaming at the top of his lungs that he hated him, that he was a screw up of a father that was abandoning his sons – even than, John always saw the sadness behind all the anger and hatred.

But not Dean. Dean would look at him and just nod. Silently agreeing that there is a greater purpose. Even now – he just looked at him, with his fever bright, glassy eyes and said that he was on his own. Dean always knew when to let him go.

He figured he could talk to the people in town, maybe head out to the desert again, and back to the motel room in just a few hours. It was summer time and the days were long so he would have no problem heading out to the desert again. He hated the idea of going out there alone with no back up, but he really didn't have a choice. Dean was no longer an option. He couldn't really wait for another hunter to come down here – but by the time another hunter would show up, it will be too late. No, Dean was right. He was on his own.

---

John entered the only bar in the town. It was not even 4 pm in the after noon and the place wasn't really crowded, but it wasn't as empty as he would have thought.

"Can I have a shot of Jack, neat?" He asked as he sat by the bar, rubbing his face.

"Long day?"

"I'm here with my kid. He's sick."

"Sorry to hear that." The bartender said as he placed the glass on the table. "Is it serious?"

"Probably just the flu or something."

"Hope it won't ruin your vacation"

"Ah… no... I'm actually here on business. Dean, my son, is just tagging along." He explained as he downed the drink in one gulp. "Maybe you could help me. I'm a reporter. I'm writing a piece on urban legends from all over the country. I heard the weirdest story regarding the latest killings that took place near by. You know anything about it?"

"I know there is nothing legendary about it." The bartender answered harshly. "People were brutally murdered."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disrespect…" John answered, but the bartender was already serving other customers. And then he did something he rarely ever did while working on a hunt – he decided to share the truth with some stranger. Well, parts of it anyways.

"I'm not really a reporter." He said a little louder so that the bartender will be able to hear him. "I… the fifth victim… ah… he was a good friend". The bartender looked up as he listened to John's confession. "I just need to find out what happened. I need to give his family some sort of a reason. Or at least to tell them what happened."

"Is that the truth?" The bartender asked.

John nod, and singled for another glass.

"And the sick kid thing?"

"That's also true" _unfortunately_, John thought. "I haven't seen Dean in a while. I thought it would be a good idea to meet him here. I was going to use his help… but now…" He trailed off.

"So, what can you tell me about those killings?" John tried again as he downed his drink.

---

It didn't make any sense. No matter how hard John tried to put all the pieces together – they just didn't end up. If what the bartender told him was true, than the killings go back almost 70 years. But if that was true, how come it didn't show up in any research he had done? Or the other hunter? Or in Dean's research? Well, he'll have to cross Dean's research. The boy was sick and probably wasn't thinking straight. Which means that his research was no good. But how come _he_ missed it?

He had to admit that his head wasn't really in the game ever since Sam took off (or driven off… he thought sadly). He was avoiding Dean as much as possible. He just couldn't handle him, his accusing looks. The silence. The way neither one of them hadn't mentioned Sam to the other. He just needed to get away from him.

The only reason he agreed to meet up with Dean for this hunt was because of the death of his friend. If another hunter couldn't handle it on his own, John surely wasn't going in without back up.

That was why he was so eager to get away from Dean after he had confirmed his suspicions that Dean was indeed sick. He had no back up. He'll have to wrap this one as fast as possible, with minimum injuries and then he'll be able to go back to being on his own. Well, he'll have to make sure that Dean was feeling better first. Because as much as he felt suffocated around the kid, he wasn't going to leave him when he was sick. You don't kick a man down – he had learnt that a long long time ago in the marines.

So now John was driving back to the desert, in the hopes to finish the hunt before it got dark. He knew it was dangerous – to go back out there, with no proper intel and without back up. But he couldn't put it off any longer. This had to be done. It was time to end it.

From what the bartender told him, there were a few deaths every five years or so, over the last 70 years. 21 deaths that the bartender remembered in person. The local residents of the town didn't think much into it, though they did think of themselves as unfortunate. It was a small town in the middle of the desert. Many deaths were explained as dehydration or heat strokes. Other were explained by freak accidents – like this guy, who went to school with him, who fell and hit his head on a rock. His body was discovered three days later, and they were told that had he been found sooner he would have made it.

All the deaths had two things in common. They all happened in the same hiking area in the desert, which was why it was referred to by the locals as "The Cursed Path". Second, all the people that died had evidence of some kind of injury, which was probably caused by some sort of an animal, thought no one was able to tell which animal it was. At that point the bartender leaned over and whispered in John's ear that he had over heard the Sheriff talking once, and that not all of the injuries were post mortem. That one got John's attention.

If he didn't know better he would have sworn that it was a Wendigo – it sure fit the killings. That didn't fit either. But now John had a theory of his own, which he wanted to test. And that's why he was headed to the desert.

As he past by the motel he briefly considered checking on Dean. He was pretty sick when he left him. But he wasn't gone too long, and besides, Dean had always had taken care of himself just fine. Sure he was stubborn and denied even being sick, until the point that he almost dropped. But once he did admit that he was sick (John had always suspected that his son needed his approval of being sick and taking things easy – he usually admitted he was sick after John had stepped his foot and wouldn't allow him to deny it any longer), he usually knew what to do. He kept hydrated and always took his meds on time. So John decided against stopping at the motel and just headed straight out of town.

---

His theory turned out to be right. He did find animal traces along Cursed Path and around the area where the killings actually took place. He also found foot prints – human foot prints, or what resembled human foot prints.

John had heard about this creature only once, and it was told by a regular guy, not a hunter. He was at a local bar once, trying to get as smashed as possible. He had just finished a hunt and decided to stay an extra day or so before he headed back to his boys. Dean was 15 at the time and was more than capable of taking care of himself and an 11 year old Sammy. So, the extra day turned into a week and that week turned into almost a month and a half. It was the longest he ever left his sons alone, but for some reason he wasn't really eager to go back. But then he got a call from Dean. Well it was actually a voice massage, which he heard 3 days after Dean had made the call. Dean explained slowly that he had broken his arm. Something about an accident at school. He had a weak voice and he sounded like he was trying his best not to cry, which really alarmed John. His 15 year old rarely ever cried. So he decided it was time to head back.

He would later find out the Dean had broken his arm in a school fight, while protecting this girl he didn't even know from a bunch of other kids who used to pick on her, and apparently had taken it too far. Neither kid was willing to give much information. Bottom line was that Dean had stepped in the middle and was pushed down the stairs. He had broken his arm, close to the elbow and dislocated his shoulder (which wasn't the first time it had happened). He was taken to the hospital by one of his teachers. He had called John from the emergency room after the teacher and the doctor who set his arm and put his shoulder back in place had already tried to call him and got no answer. They wouldn't let Dean go home without adult supervision and even threatened to call child protection services if no relative would show up. Dean had finally broke and called pastor Jim, but when he had made the call to John he was just terrified that they would take him and his brother from his father's custody and place them into foster homes.

He would find all that later, when he returned home two days after he had heard the massage to find a slightly high on pain medication Dean. Dean was always a little too talkative when he was high and he volunteered most of the information. The rest he found out from Jim and Sam.

But before he drove back to his sons he stopped at the local bar, to get as drunk as possible before he got back to the reality of his life. A guy was at the bar with a bunch of his friends and a girl, whom he seemed to want to impress. So he told the group in a loud drunken voice about a story, which he hear from a friend, who heard it from his friend, who heard it from another friend, who swore it was true.

The guy had gone on and on about this animal who had turned semi human over the years. It hunted and ate like a wild animal but walked and even talked a little like a human being. He said that the friend of the friend of the friend came across it while hiking (he didn't mention if he was hiking in a desert area) and only barely made it out a live in one piece.

John didn't take much interest in that story, but he still made a few notes in his journal. He had learnt a long time ago that most of the urban legends had a factual base. After that he was unable to go back to his drinking binge, so he just paid his bill got in the Impala and drove back to his sons.

Now it all made perfect sense. That was why this creature resembled a Wendigo so much. A Wendigo was once human, this creature (which he liked to refer to as the anti-Wendigo, though he would have to come with a better name), was an animal turned human. It also made sense why it was hunting in the desert. The hunting area of the anti-Wendigo derived from the animal original hunting area. That was why the hunting area of the anti-Wendigo varied from the woods, to lakes, to the desert and even the open seas. This particular anti-Wendigo was probably some sort of an animal which habitant was once the desert.

He traced the original victims' path and decided to wait. It was only half past 5 PM and he still had plenty of day light. And if he was right the anti-Wendigo hasn't eaten in a while, since the locals were too afraid to go out there after the latest killings – it would be hungry and desperate for a pray.

So he just waited.

John waited for another hour or so before that Thing finally made his appearance. John had been prepared, he had his weapons ready and his instincts were sharp, but he wasn't preparing for an attack from two different directions. The anti-Wendigo had a mate.

One of them came from behind John, and he swiftly turned around and shot at it. The creature dodged at the last minute – he missed. It was than that its mate decided to make an appearance – he took a swing at John, its arm long and human like, but his nails were like claws. It dug its claws deep in his back and scratched down, the pain momentarily blinding him. He tried to shoot again but his right hand refused to work right. The other creature also returned. It jumped him and tackled him to the ground, sending him falling on his back. His gun went flying from his hand and John could swear that he heard something break. It was getting difficult to breathe. He could feel them clawing him, but he did not care. All he could think about was to get to his gun and finish them off.

He finally managed to reach his gun and without even thinking about it he pulled the trigger. The anti-Wendigo on top of him sagged against him, squishing the air out of his lungs. The other one just took off, not before John was able to fire at his direction. He thought he heard the creature whimper in pain as if hit, but he wasn't sure.

He gathered all his strength and finally rolled the creature off of him. But he didn't feel the relief he had expected once the heavy weight was lifted from him – it was still hard to breathe, too hard.

He did a quick assessment of his injuries. He definitely had broken ribs and he also felt blood trickling from the gashes on his back. He also had a vicious headache, though he didn't remember hitting his head. He then began to slowly shuffle his way back to the car. He would have to come back to finish the hunt in another time, he was in no shape to be chasing after the creature. Though he wasn't too worried now – one creature was definitely dead and the other one was wounded, which would probably make it easier for him to find.

It took him almost two hours to get back to the car, and by the time he finally reached his beloved classic, it was already dark out and he was ready to drop. The world was spinning around him faster and faster, making him so nauseous he had to stop and throw up a while ago. He also felt light headed and weak, probably due to blood loss. He was in no shape to drive, he knew that much. So he just opened the passenger seat, lowered the seat back so he would be able to lie down and climbed in. He drank some water, which Dean kept in a bottle under the seat, and was pleased that he was able to keep it down.

He thought about calling Dean, to come pick him up, but the kid was in no shape to drive either. So he just decided to rest a little before he drove back. He just closed his eyes for a while. He let himself to relax a little, despite the pain. He felt the consciousness slowly slipping away as his muscles became limp. He tried to fight it for a little longer, suddenly realizing that passing out alone and injured, on the side of the road, when nobody is waiting for him, and wouldn't realize that he was missing, was probably not the best idea. But he couldn't fight it anymore, he tried to sit up but that sent firing hot pain through his back. He also tried to reach for his cell phone, but he couldn't find it. He finally gave up. John lost consciousness almost immediately.

John woke up to a world of pain a few hours later. He noticed that he was out almost 9 hours, and that the sun was just starting to rise. The fact the he was able to sleep (or was he unconscious?) that long alarmed him that maybe something was really wrong with him, and that he maybe needed medical attention.

He painfully sat up and when the world wasn't spinning as he expected it he decided to head back to the motel and patch himself up instead of driving straight to the nearest emergency room.

He got out of the car and went to the driver's seat, instead of shifting places inside the car, avoiding the pain of trying to maneuver himself in the cramped space of the car. He then turned the ignition on and drove to the hotel.

Only when he parked in front of his and Dean's room he realized that he was going on sheer adrenaline. He wasn't able to remember the entire drive back. He seriously had no idea how he got back. He stepped out of the car and almost vomited again when a dizzy spell came over him. He waited for a few seconds for the nauseating feeling to pass before he staggered to the room. He tried to get the key in its whole, but his hands were shaking so bad he couldn't get it right. He dropped the keys and nearly passed out as he tried to retrieve them. Black spots were dancing in front his eyes and his vision was beginning to blur. Finally he felt the door open, though he only slightly registered that he was still holding the keys in has hand. Someone opened the door for him.

"Dad?" He heard Dean asked before he finally collapsed.

---

John woke up some time later. He wasn't really sure what time it was. He remembered vaguely stumbling into the motel room around sunrise, but after that everything was blank.

He couldn't tell what time it was. The room was quite dark, the drapes closed shut and all the lights were out. From how hot the room was he thought that it was probably around noon but he wasn't really sure.

He did know that he had been taken care of. He was lying flat on his stomach, which made breathing quite painful. But he wasn't experiencing the excruciating pain that latterly steals your breath away, which always came with broken ribs. The pain was more of a dull throb, which meant that he took some pain killers, some pretty strong pain killers.

He also noticed that his ribs and back were wrapped up and that he wasn't wearing his torn blood soaked clothes he had on one he came back from the desert. He was wearing an old pair of sweat pants and a light t-shirt.

The motel room also seemed clean and tidy. The salt lines were visible against the window and the front door. Not that he was able to see much from his position on the bed. Dean had obviously patched him up and cleaned after him.

Dean.

He suddenly had flashes of his son taking care of him. He couldn't really remember it all, but he had different images of Dean. The heat radiating off his body as he laid his hand on him. his son's glassy fever bright and slightly unfocused eyes staring at him.

John suddenly had a sense that something was wrong, very wrong. The room was too quiet. He turned his head towards Dean's bed. The bed was unmade but Dean wasn't there. It made that feeling in the pit of his stomach intensify. He tried to calm down but the dread was increasing by the seconds. He had to see that his son was fine and he had to see it now.

With a great effort he pushed himself off the bed, trying not to get up too fast so he wouldn't jar his ribs or tear the stitches he could now clearly felt on his back.

He noticed that the bathroom door was open. He slowly shuffled towards the bathroom, using the wall for support.

The first thing that he noticed was the strong suffocating smell of vomit which clung in the air, which made him gag. He than registered the sight of his son lying on the floor, his head resting in small puddle of his own sickness. He dropped to his knees as fast as his injuries allowed him, calling out his son's name.

"Dean… Dean… Hey… wake up…" John slightly shook him, terrified of the heat radiating off his son, clearly evident, even through the shirt he was wearing. Dean was burning up. His fever was higher than before, John was sure of that, and his fever was quite high before. He was also shaking violently, his teeth chattering as the tremors racked his body. His fever was still climbing up.

Dean stirred a little and his eyes fluttered open, though he wasn't really seeing his father.

"Hey kid…" John said softly. "What are you doing on the floor? Lets get you back to bed." He swung Dean's arm around his neck and tried to pull him up. Bad idea. Hot pain flared through his back and he felt some of the stitches tear open. Blood was slowly oozing through the gashes, slightly tickling him. John dropped Dean back on the floor.

"Jesus".

"Dean… Dean. Hey, you can't go back to sleep yet, okay kid?" He shook him again as he noticed Dean's eyes closing. He slightly pinched Dean's Delta muscle. Dean tried to pull away, but his eyes shot open again.

"Good boy. Now. You have to help me here Dean. I can't do it alone, okay?"

Dean tried, he really did – John could clearly see his efforts. Dean managed to weakly push him self back into a sitting position, leaning heavily against the wall, shutting his eyes for a second as the room span dangerously around him. John squeezed his Delta muscle again to keep his son from falling asleep. He was met with Dean's fever bright pained eyes.

John then realized with a scared understanding that he will not be able to get Dean off the floor. That he will not be able to get his son the medical attention he clearly needed. He painfully stretched up. He rubbed the back of his hand on his forehead, noticing for the first time the bandage there. He tried to weigh his options, when he suddenly saw something, which made his blood run cold.

Dean's right ear was bleeding. The blood slowly trickling down the side of his face. _Oh god_.

He then knew he had no other choice. He went back to the living room, grabbed Dean's cell phone and dialed 911.

"My son is sick… really sick…" He nearly shouted as soon as someone answered the phone after long 6 rings. She sounded young, but he really didn't care.

"Can you describe his symptoms?"

"He's got a really high fever, over 104. Sensitivity to light…. He's unconscious… his ears are bleeding….. " He rambled, talking so fast he felt slightly out of breath. "Just get here….."

"Where are you staying?"

"The Desert Motel down 5th road, room 14. Hurry." He didn't even wait for a response. He hung up unlocked the front door so that the paramedics will be able to get in and went back to the bathroom, grabbing one of the pillows of the bed.

He kneeled down by Dean, and slowly eased him back on his side, placing the pillow under his head, trying to make him as comfortable as possible. Just as he was lying back down he started retching violently again. John turned him on his side and rubbed soothing circles on his back, noticing that Dean's shirt was soaked in sweat, mumbling that everything is going to be okay. He was too hot. He had to cool him somehow.

John grabbed a towel of the floor and put it in the sink, soaking it in cool tap water. He then placed the towel on Dean's torso noticing that the shaking got much worse the minute he had placed the towel on him. Dean tried to pull the towel away, but John grabbed his hands.

"Don't, Dean. You're burning up. I need to get your temprature down. Don't worry. Everything is going to be fine. Help is on its way. Everything will be fine…." He whispered.

John then sat down and leaned heavily against the wall, not feeling any pain as his torn back made contact with the wall. He looked at his son. Dean was pale, too pale. Except for a slight flush from the fever, spread across his cheeks. Dean's freckles were visible against his pale skin, making him look younger than his 22 years of age. Almost 23, John thought. Where the hell were the paramedics?

As if on cue, there was a loud nock on the door.

"Sir… are you there?" the paramedic yelled as he opened the door.

"In here" He called.

"Hey I'm Jack" one of the paramedics introduced him self. "And that's Matt".

"Can you tell us what happened?"

"I don't know… he's just really sick…." John said quietly.

"What's his name?"

"Dean."

One of the paramedics, he believed was called Jack,, kneeled besides him, shining a pen light in his eyes.

"I'm fine…." He brushed him off. "Just take care of my son."

"Dean. Dean, can you hear me? Open your eyes for me. Dean!"

"Pulse 115. Blood pressuer 90 over 50. Breathing's a little fast 28." John heard the other paramedic say.

"His temperature is through the roof 105.6."

"Jesus" John and the paramedic said simultaneously.

"He's dehydrated. I'm starting a line." The paramedic informed as he grabbed a saline bag from his bag and quickly and efficiently inserted the needle in Dean's left arm. When he was done, he placed an oxygen mask on his face, which John could see that was fogging and clearing and fogging again in a too fast rhythm.

"How long has he been like this?"

"I don't know. He's been sick for the last couple of days. But I wasn't really in touch with him for the last month or so, so it could be longer." He said sadly.

"What were his symptoms?"

"He had a fever. Was throwing up. He complained that the light hurt his eyes… and now… his ear's bleeding…" He described again. As he mentioned the bleeding the paramedic slightly turned Dean's head to see if he was bleeding in both ears.

"Okay, we're taking him to the hospital." The first paramedic said.

They both placed Dean on the gurney, just as he started vomiting again. "Turn him on his side, before he aspirates."

John heard Dean's quite moans as he was turned on his right side. He got up and had to grab the wall for support as the room tilted.

"Sir. Are you okay?" The paramedic asked. John did not answer. "Are you hurt? You're bleeding…."

"What? No…. 'm fine…." John answered slightly slurring his words.

"Sir. You need to come with us. You need to get checked up at the hospital."

"I've told you already. 'm fine. Just take care of Dean."

"Dean is being taken care of." He tried to assure him, though John noticed he did not say that Dean was fine. He was obviously not fine.

"Come on. We'll get you both to the hospital."

John couldn't argue that it was probably a good idea. He also knew that he will not be able to drive to the hospital on his own. He needed to catch a ride with them. He quickly grabbed his cell phone and his wallet, the one with all the fake IDs. He was then escorted to the ambulance by one of the paramedic, as the other paramedic was telling the hospital over the radio their condition and what to expect as he pushed Dean's gurney. John only made out a few of the words.

"Severely high fever, sensitivity to light, stiffness around the neck, bleeding ears, extensive vomiting. possible meningitis, possible encephalitis. Yeah I know, it doesn't look good. His father is injured I don't know what the story there. Jack is with him now. We are evacuating the both of them." He then loaded the gurney in the back of the ambulance and went to the driver's seat, still talking over the radio.

ETA around 12 minutes."


End file.
